Willy Nilly
by semi-sweet and nuts
Summary: A first person narrative through the eyes of none other than Willy Wonka himself, if I may be so brave. It doesn't really have a plot, it's just an improvised stream of consciousness, trying to keep him in character. Please tell me if you think he's not.
1. Oranges: Not Only Fruit

But that didn't really happen though now did it?

Did it?

I find it increasingly difficult to tell apart what's happening inside of my head and outside of it. It doesn't really matter though, the outside world is just a sort of extended version of my brain, at least the part of the outside world I prefer to remain within. The chocolate factory as a Gargantuan brain with billions of little brain cells working hard for me and billions of nerves running all across the place like cables, crosswise and counterwise, upwards and downwards, much like the glass elevator. And the brain cells would be the Oompa-Loompas then. Yeah. The Oompa-Loompas, or perhaps the rooms are the brain cells and the Oompa-Loompas tiny little hormones and pheromones and proteins and carbohydrates and vitamins, that kind of stuff, working hard for me and sometimes causing mischief.

I lost my track. What was I thinking about? I'm quite sure it wasn't the double bubble or pocket billiards or two bit nit wits or raspberry bumble either, for that matter. Oh yeah. My brain. No, it was something else before that, before I got lost in the brain metaphor, or was it a metaphor really? Something brain-related, sort of mushy, not distinct and stay-neatly-where-you-put-it like, well, like candy. Oh, except for the wriggly sweets of course, those little buggers certainly never stay where you put them.

Now I remember, the itty little reunion thingie bit! That was a nice fantasy, very nice. Pretty. But I couldn't really have done it, not actually factually in reality have done it. Could I? How utterly out of character! Too easy. Too human. Human is a funny word. Sort of mushy-wushy.

I never did leave the factory again, I distinctly remember that. My glass elevator doesn't have a button marked "D… d… d… d… daddy's house". I could double, triple, quadruple check that out. It was a pretty little daydream, that's all. All fluffy and human, sort of. A bit on the sentimental side, maybe. But I think I could afford that, what with my first grey hair and all, time is high for some sentimentality, sweet childhood memories and dealing with unresolved traumas, yessiree. But I really can't be bothered with that for very long. The thing bores me.

The part about Charlie being a shoe shiner boy? I thought that was kinda cute. I snatched it from some story I heard. Couldn't you tell? There aren't even any shoe shiner boys anymore, or so I'm told. I snitched the part about hiding behind a newspaper as well, what a stupid thing to do, I would never! I even let Charlie call my hairdo funny, oh me, the generosity! I could just as well have him say something like "Oh my, Mr Wonka, you look splendid today, Mr Wonka, sir!" and I could have snapped at him all the same. Because I would. What an utterly ridiculous and annoying thing to say! But no. Not me. Uh-oh.

Repeating my offer? No! I couldn't possibly have done that. I'm your proud candy dandy. Well, not _your_. Not _your _either. Just general "your" as in fancy title, right? No misunderstandings. This here chocolatier belongs to nobody but himself, nosiree.

Thoughts keep flickering in and out of my head, some of them not so nice. I concentrate on the nice ones. Like I keep up a smile. I heard smiling actually makes you happy. Something to do with hormones, pheromones, those little buggers, the Oompa-Loompas of my fabulous internal chocolate factory. Much like cocoa. Makes your head spin. I actually get all dizzy from smiling, perhaps it has something to do with my jaw not being set properly, it's very… clinched… sometimes. But how could my jaw possibly _not _be set properly after all the years of…

Oh.

Must get back to work now! The Oompa-Loompas can't be left by themselves in the inventing room for too long, the mischievous little creatures. Just as I wanted them to be, a whiff of whimsy and chaos to my factory. Well, I guess _I'm _the whiff of whimsy, they can be the chaos, suits them right. Guess I'm everything though. All-encompassing. What a nice thought, if slightly unsettling.

Silly willy-nilly Willy! I like to address myself like that. Makes me feel like I'm in good company. The bestest. The little shiny button shining is not the inventing room button. It's the oranges: not only fruit button. Distractedly pressed because it is in such a great _height _and _angle_, just perfect for pressing. Liked the novel too. Yes, I do read books. Occasionally. If they're about me, and all books are if I want them to be. Not the boring stuff though, blah blah blah blah, good evening Mr Parker, good morning Mrs Smith. Most of them are. I pick them by the titles and order them online. Actually, I let an Oompa-Loompa do that for me. I don't like the internet, it's full of… stuff. Makes me all fretty like somebody's watching.

Speaking of books, didn't like _Como agua para chocolate _much despite the title. All the chilli-eating, made me quite sick to my stomach when there is such a thing as chocolate. In the title and all, they could so not not have heard of it! And what's with all the… ew. Ew. There you go, spontaneously combusting suits you fine. It's like that poor old Oompa-Loompa, well, he didn't exactly _spontaneously _combust, of course he had one of those hot cross nuns. Didn't think it would be _that _hot really. Couldn't fix him again at all, I'm afraid. Good thing there are so many of them and if I ever run out I'll just make some more. _Get _some more. In Loompa-land, yeah you know, all that jazz, trekking through the jungle, fighting hideous beasts, been there, done that, would do it again if necessary, a little vacation is always welcome for an overworked old chocolatier.

Ouch. Did I just say old? Of course I'm not old. Just look at the youthful vigour of that slender figure reflected in the glass wall of the elevator! Look at his perfect skin and perfect teeth – here I put on my best grin to show them off – and his delicious hair shifting in all colours from dark chocolate to milk. Chocolate, that is, not milk. Yet, how about _milk white _hair, wouldn't I look _good_? In more ways than one because as you know the colour white is so closely associated with goodness and light and cleanliness and godliness and innocence and… death. Oh yeah, death. I'll just stick to chocolate.

When I close my eyes all the lights go out in the factory. Or at least I'd like to think so. In fact, things continue to happen beneath the mint surface of my sleeping face, all the little coughs and wheels spinning, spinning, spinning at tumultuous speeds. Sometimes when I awake I have dreamt new creations into existence. Or have I? Did I dream that, too?

I get poetic like that sometimes. It's great fun, you should try it too! You should try the lactic acid drops and the candy-coated pencils and the dimpleberry dogs and the lime slime pie which is not quite done yet because it makes your tongue grow out of control but later, when it's all done, you should definitely try it! Definitely.

Well here we are! The oranges: not only fruit room. It was a _good _thing I pressed that button, it has been quite a while since I last inspected this room. I do such good things sometimes. Almost all of the time, come to think of it.

There's a _door _in the oranges: not only fruit room. A slim black door in the white wall. Not the orange wall, or the purple one, or the yellow or blue or red one, which in my not-so-humble opinion would have looked much niftier. Not-so-humble because I _built _the gosh darn factory and I put my doors where I very well want them to be. And I would _not _put that black door in the _white _wall, never! Not in the oranges: not only fruit room, no way. Black and white suits the salt and peppermints room, or the panda grooming room, but clearly not the oranges: not only fruit room. Yet, the door stubbornly remains in the white wall.

I didn't put a door there. Did I? Perhaps I have dreamt it into existence and forgotten all about the dream when I woke up? Perhaps the Oompa-Loompas put it there as a prank. Yeah, probably that. I couldn't let them down then. Couldn't possibly. Hence I put on my most dazzling smile, grab the doorknob and swing the door wide open, prepared to be covered in various coloured slime or sucked in by a giant vacuum or something common like that. My smile stiffens as the door reveals something completely _un_-expected. A closet barely spacious enough to contain it's only content, which happens to be a blonde boy with enormous black goggles and a somewhat delicate shape.

"You're not supposed to be here," I point out in a high-pitched voice, "You're supposed to be someplace different." I close the door very softly in the hope that the boy will somehow be gone the nest time anyone opens it. I better just leave now and then check in on it every now and then to see what happens. No, I'll let an Oompa-Loompa check in on it for me. No, better still, I'll let the Oompa-Loompas board up that door real safe. But then, perhaps, that… _character_… will be stuck in the heart of my chocolate factory forever? Because the oranges: not only fruit room is the heart, officially, the corridors are the veins and arteries, the inventing room the brain, the chocolate room the lungs, the chocolate river the rectum, yes I know, ew, Oompa-Loompa sense of humour, what kind of rectum runs through the lungs anyway?

I better think this over.

No! I better forget the whole thing and never ever open that door ever again.

Great! Where was I? Inspecting the oranges: not only fruit room doesn't seem so exciting anymore, with the black door eyeing me like _I'm_ the intruder. I could bet at least a hundred gallons of fluffy, frothy chocolate on the fact that I spy it moving in the corner of my eye. A sort of flickering, like a TV between the channels. But when I spin around like whoooooooosh! all lightning fast! it is always the same seemingly innocent blank black rectangle. Show's over, nothing more to see!

Does it surprise you if I'm feeling just a little uneasy? I decide to slowly back out of the oranges: not only fruit room, never letting that deceptive door thingie box out of sight. And I go bumping right into the glass elevator with a bump! and an ouch! as I hit the back of my head and the hat comes tumbling down. I slowly crouch to pick it up, careful not to let that door out of sight. Then I equally carefully rise and start to fumble behind my back for the elevator button, find it, and slink into the elevator backwards. "Aha!" I cannot help but exclaim triumphantly, as the elevator door slides safely shut in front of me, pointing in the general direction of that other door with my cane. I playfully shake my right index finger at it, almost my old cheerful self again, as I push a random elevator button with the other hand without looking. Yay! I like to do that sometimes! And whooooooooosh!


	2. Residence

Charlie Bucket? Charlie! Bucket! What a funny name! Just right for someone living in a shed, eating nothing but cabbage soup. Did I invent that too? Did I invent him altogether? Were there really _children _in _my _factory? How weird. And kinda gross. Oh well, they're not here now, no harm done, back to business as usual!

My glass elevator doesn't have a button marked "The Bucket Shed" either. Perhaps I just imagined that part though, perhaps we really walked or something. Took a ride with a chocolate truck. But why would I _leave _the factory to take the boy _home _if I wanted him to _stay _here with me?

Gotta think hard about this one.

Perhaps I just wanted to give his grandpa a ride home, can't have grandpas stumbling about in my factory, drooling at things, with their incontinence and senility and all that, makes them clearly unsuitable for chocolate factories. Yeah. Perhaps I just wanted to let this little Charlie Bucket thingie say farewell to his family, a great big farewell with fanfares and tears and stuff before leaving them forever. I'm generous like that.

Stupid part of the plan _that _was.

Or genius. I'd rather say genius. I don't have children running around in my factory anymore now do I? Then all's well, swell, it was a happy ending after all.

Wait. What if I, Willy Wonka, am just another tiny Oompa-Loompa in someone else's chocolate factory?

Nonsense.

Here we are then. The residence. I'm _good _at pressing random buttons! After this nerve-wrecking little experience in the oranges: not only fruit room (What was that all about again? I forget.) I could use a nice relaxing bubble bath.

I actually have a bubble bath waterfall too. It's true! It's in the bubble room of course and it leads the foam to my tub by a very long pipe. It takes quite some time to get here so it's a good thing I invented the slow-bursting candy-coloured bubble bath. Who has the patience to wait for the lather to build anyway? My lather is always waiting for me in my bubble bath waterfall and it comes in different colours too! Today it's sort of lavender pinkish which is very fruity. I had it bright red once but it didn't look so nice when I got up to get dressed. After that I changed my towels from alabaster to mauve. Mauve conceals bubble bath stains better. Not that I ever use the same towel twice, but it's not nice to the Oompa-Loompas to only give them _stained _discarded towels all of the time. I can tell you the Oompa-Loompa who embroiders the little swirly monograms in the corner of each towel is quite the busybody, he, at least, deserves better than stained towels.

It's important that the froth is very frothy and thick. You see, I have the Oompa-Loompas scrubbing my back and doing my nails when I take a bath, and I wouldn't want them to see anything… inappropriate. Now, how would that look?

My bathroom is all covered in marshmallow pink tiles, even the ceiling. I like it like that. It's h-u-g-e and has white chairs and fluffy little white carpets and tall white tables with no other function than to hold a white vase with a sculpted candy flower arrangement in it. I just drop my clothes on the floor, an Oompa-Loompa will pick them up later and wash them and return them to my wardrobe which is a walk-in wardrobe, mind you.

I carefully insert myself into the water, which is kept at a perfect body temperature. Otherwise I would be all flushed and ruddy, how about that? I prefer not to think of it as "body temperature" though. I place my hands on the sides of the tub and stick my toes out in the far end, hell-o toes! nice to see you, how are you doing? yes I know my new shoes hurt a bit but they're so gosh darn fancy, you'll get over it. After checking that the foam is intact I emit the Loompa-call and five Oompa-Loompas come running in with synchronised movements. Four of them carry nail files and the fifth a brush to scrub my back. I hate having my back scrubbed, it _hurts _and gives me ugly pinkish scratches which doesn't come off for several minutes, but that's the way it's done. The Oompa-Loompas proceed to work on me and I uneasily stir when the one with the brush lends in too close. I irritably remind him to use the entire length of the handle, it's there for a _reason_, damnit!

My hands are very white and very ticklish. I always fret and wriggle when the Oompa-Loompas do my nails. The skin on my fingertips is so delicate it's almost see-through. I've been trying for years to imitate it in marzipan, never works!

When I'm done with my bath I wait for the Oompa-Loompas to clear the premises. Then I step out of the tub and use the warmed towel I find neatly folded at hand. After that I slip into a lilac silk pyjamas – I have them in all kinds of colours, silver grey, steel blue, dusty rose, emerald green, bordeaux, but all of the colours are very soft, almost washed out, and cool. I put on my white cotton sleeping gloves, because there is no way of telling where your hands are going when you sleep, and proceed to brush my hair. A hundred strokes a day! Of course, I could have an Oompa-Loompa do that for me, too, but I like to feel the texture of it. Wearing sleeping gloves is almost wearing no gloves at all. I pop my head in the hairdryer for a minute, simultaneously inserting the toothbrusher to save time. Very efficient. The toothbrusher is moulded after my teeth and brushes all of them from all sides at once. I always hated brushing my teeth so that was a major scientific breakthrough for me. See, I don't always make candy, even if that's how my genius is put to its best use.

My bedroom is light blue with silver stars on the walls and in the ceiling, and my bed, which isenormous and standing in the middle of the room with space on all sides, has rich dark blue velvet curtains. The silk sheets are in a cool blue somewhere in between the light walls and the dark curtains, and it has a whole heap of pillows in different shades of blue. There's absolutely nothing else in the room, apart from the carpet which is so thick I wade to my ankles in it and so dark blue it's almost black, and a carpet isn't really a piece of furniture, is it? I like to keep it like that, the bedroom for my bed, the what's in store room for checking what's in store, you get the point. Why would I need other stuff in here, I've got plenty of other rooms to do other things in, one room for each thing you could possibly imagine and if there's one missing I'll just build it! There's always room for another, somehow.

My bedroom has no windows, none of the rooms in my factory has, which is great since I don't need any roller blinds. I just say "lights out" and I'm in the dark. But I don't say that just yet, it would leave me fumbling my way to the bed in the dark, resulting in aching toes and perhaps other body parts aching as well from bumping into the bedposts. Instead I find my way to the bed, in the light, and slink in under the ultra lite down comforter. Then I sort of wriggle my way to the centre of the bed, which leaves the sheets wrinkly and is really impractical, why did I make the bed so darn big? Well, at least it looks impressive! I put my head on the pillow I always rest my head on, the light sort of purplish, silverish blue one, it goes the bestest with my hair. Then I fold my hands neatly on top of the quilt and I'm all cosy and ready to sleep.

I'm in control

When I close my eyes, all of the lights go out in the factory. I already said that, didn't I?

Lights out.


	3. Gingerbread House

Stepping out of my residence I make a Very Important Decision. Today I'll press the elevator button marked gingerbread house.

I press the elevator button marked gingerbread house. And the elevator comes to a halt in a room much like the chocolate room, but it isn't because the chocolate room doesn't have a gingerbread house in it so it makes no sense at all to get to the chocolate room if you press the button marked gingerbread house. This is the gingerbread house room, and there's the gingerbread house, eternally powdered with icing sugar snow. The icing sugar powders my hat and shoulders too as I walk towards it, and I leave a trail of high-heeled footsteps and little cane marks behind. I walk straight to the nearest window and look inside.

There they are, the little Buckets. Charlie Bucket, mommy Bucket, daddy Bucket and all the grandpas and grandmas Bucket, all seated around the table. Remember me snooping around in their house, opening all of the doors and drawers? I was just being curious to begin with, but that toothpaste hat (how distasteful) model of my factory gave me an idea and the detailed knowledge of the cottage did come in very handy when I built _my _model. It's all made of candy of course, except for the people which are – well, I won't go into the technical details, but they never move when I'm out of sight, always seated around the table, ready for dinner. There's an empty chair for me and I like to have my dinner there sometimes, when I'm feeling – well, sometimes I just feel like it, kay? Of course, all of the food is made of candy too. I don't really eat.

Grandma Georgina will say something charmingly out-of-touch, like "You smell like peanuts!" (Because I don't! I smell like chocolate, obviously. If it doesn't stick to my clothes and hair from working with it all day long my Eau de Chocolat is bound to do the trick.) and Charlie will come up with some random candy idea which is, of course, mine, but sometimes it's very inspiring to hear your ideas repeated when you least expect it. He's sort of like my chaos generator tape recorder, much more convenient than a _real _boy I'm sure, which would be more like a chaos generator lump of flesh on a pair of skippy legs.

Today I'll just check in on them through the window though. It was a Very Important Decision, pressing that button today, because I normally only allow myself to come here once a week, like a Sunday dinner, and I've already been here this week, so that's cheating. I guess it doesn't count if I don't go inside though. I needed to come here today, so see that everything's in order, right were I left it. No _doors _popping up here and there, no trap doors to go tumbling down through. This room is always just like I left it. The Oompa-Loompas are not allowed in here. Well, I guess I'd make an exception for repairs.

As I stand there looking in at the Bucket family Charlie turns his head towards me and gives me this long look. Is he supposed to do that? I didn't want him to do that! He smiles and waves at me as I grow more and more certain he's not supposed to do that. I quickly duck for cover and crawl out of sight, then I start running for the glass elevator.

Great. Just great. Now the gingerbread house room is turning against me too. This is beginning to resemble _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_. Poor Frank. Poor me. I'll just slip on something glittery for my final song then.

Just kidding.

I'll just go straight back to my rooms and start the day all over like I've never been here.


	4. Purple Room

First thing in the morning I shave, always using my old fashioned shaving knife with the golden W embedded in the ivory handle and always doing it myself – sharpening the blade is as close as any Oompa-Loompa gets. I can't stand to see the stubble, see, it completely ruins my complexion. When I'm smooth as a… as a… batch of melted milk chocolate! again I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders, and lift my shoulders accordingly. Then I like what I see, I'm not done yet, but I still like it.

An Oompa-Loompa gets to pluck my eyebrows. I snap at him when it hurts. It always does. And I even invented a cooling, slightly numbing, mint cream to ease the pain. "Dang it, do you _want _me to get all wrinkly like a raisin from frowning in pain?" I ask the little booger. Raisins… I need to do something with raisins! I have the grapes of wrath room and the grape nuggets room and the grape expectations room and the Gilbert's grapes room (gee, I must really love grapes) but not a single room for raisins. Perhaps I should call it the grape retirement home in the sky and build it as a sort of greenhouse-like glass room on top of the roof?

Now on the question I'm sure has been bothering all of you like a buzzing Whangdoodle locked in your head, trying to get out, smacking against your skull:

How do I keep so _youthful _and _delicious _and _darn good looking_?

Sssssshhh.

I have a portrait in the attic too. Only my attic is located in the free basement, logistics issues.

I notice my haircut is not quite razor sharp anymore so I call for my hairdresser Oompa-Loompa to fix it up as I do every other morning. That thing about me having my semi-annual haircut was a joke. Duh, my fringe would cover my eyes and my ends would grow all uneven if I didn't have my hair cut more than twice a year. They didn't get it though. Clearly shows poor people have no sense of style. Or perhaps they just thought I had perfected my anti-hair toffee already. Unfortunately it's only on the experimental stage as of yet and I reckon it will be for years. I think I'd have better luck with anti-hair _gum _but I hate gum. It's gross. Just look at what happened to that Violet kid! Well at least that was an entertaining kind of gross so I guess _something _good comes out of gum too. But _me _chewing chewing chewing… Uh-oh, never.

It was when I had my hair cut I studied myself in the mirror and discovered it was time. Time to go to the purple room again. What would be more suitable then than to dress all in purple? I put on my cool silvery purple satin shirt, my almost black but obviously also purple since I said dress all in purple didn't I? velvet pants, my plum coloured velvet frock coat and my reddish purple, oriental patterned necktie fastened by the silver W, and finish it off with a seemingly black top hat with purpleish highlights. _And _a pair of purple gloves of course, mustn't forget the gloves. Even my socks and shoes are purple, the socks more violet and the leather of the shoes of a very mute colour. I look absolutely splendid! It might sound like all these purple hues would be awfully mismatched but I have a very refined taste and I assure you I look splendid. There's just this one little detail which needs fixing and that's why I'm going to the purple room today.

The purple room is, why, purple of course! Come to think of it, it sort of clashes with my outfit, which is bad, but I'm not spending much time here anyway and no-one's here to see me, which is good. The wall (because circular rooms only have one, it's an interesting feature they don't share with many other rooms although I have a few) is covered by shelves and the shelves are covered by rows of little purple glass vials, like an apothecary's shop. The glass vials hold one little pill each, pills I've spent weeks trilling and am probably never going to use up anyway, but I think it looks just nifty! If you do something you might as well do it properly, that's my kind of business slogan. Otherwise you might just as well not do it at all and I _like _doing things, just lying around on my back all day staring at the ceiling would be dead boring!

Did I say the shelves were full of glass vials? That's not entirely true. The three and a half topmost shelves are actually empty, and a ladder leads to where the row of glass vials start. I climb that ladder and grab the first vial. Back on ground level (not that this room is _actually _on ground level, but as to it's exact location - ) I remove the lid and let the little pill slide into the palm of my hand. It's perfectly round and shiny and looks black, but that's only because it's so _concentrated_. I contemplate the beauty of it against my purple glove for a moment before picking it up and placing it on my tongue, where it starts to melt. It tastes like violets. Delicious! I wish I had the reason to do this more often, perhaps I should change the recipe? But the thought of trilling all those little pills again when there's so much other candy to be made!

I cross the floor to the glass vial-shaped and glass vial-sized garbage chute in the exact centre of the room and toss the empty glass vial down. In the meantime, the little pill begins to work it's wonders, and I take the silver hand mirror I brought out of my pocket and intently watch my face, keen not to miss this rare spectacle. Slowly, my irises gain a new brilliance, positively brimming with impossible colour. The dull, brownish tint I discovered this morning is replaced by the most mouth-watering, eye-popping purple.

I like chocolate brown alright. But it's so gosh darn _common_.

I like to keep this room a secret from everyone, even the Oompa-Loompas, who are _not _allowed in the glass elevator, which is marked "boss man only", which it's not but you get the point and they do too. That's really silly of course but a chocolate wiz needs to have some things he keeps to himself.


	5. Beetle Juicing

I have been dillying and dallying all morning and it just won't do. Time for some hard work! But what to work on today? Let's see… Yeah, the beetle juicing room! I need to complete some of my creations and not just invent new ones, and my sweet bugs are not quite ready for the market yet. Because I make sweet bugs in the beetle juicing room, not beetle juice, I'm in the candy business after all and not the beverage business. I just wanted it to sound ickily funny. Oh, and to confuse spies. Can't have Slugworth and Prodnose releasing sweet bugs before I do, can't have that! Of course, nobody's let into the factory anymore, but you can never be too careful… Didn't something suspicious happen just the other day? Oh and there were children in my factory too, poking children and their snooping parents, who knows what they were up to when I let them out of sight… All these little accidents just so I would have to send them off alone to be restored, perhaps they weren't accidents after all… That's right, they weren't. Right.

Well let's get back to business shall we! The beetle juicing room has triple doors with mosquito nets in between to keep the bugs in place. I wouldn't want them in my chocolate room, they would eat my mint leaves and make holes in my candy apples and pollinate my flowers, making them grow uncontrollably all over the room. And then they would just fall down dead in the chocolate river, hordes of them, and the scrumptylicious flower would be contaminated. Not yucky, of course, because all of my bugs are delicious, but contaminated, all the wrong flavours in all the wrong places. How about Fudgemallow Delight With Crunchy Bug Legs, doesn't sound so appealing now does it? Perhaps it does… I'll make a mental note.

Done. The beetle juicing room is very neat. To make absolutively sure the bugs don't escape they're locked in glass tanks (I tried clear caramel but they kept eating their way out), each species separate except for the ladybirds and lice which lives in happy symbiosis. Oompa-Loompas in green vinyl overalls and gardener-style straw hats just for kicks are busy with their butterfly nets, studying the bugs' life patterns and reporting any unexpected flavour changes. I pass the tank with the shiny black hard liquorice spiders which weave spun sugar webs, the tank with the green minty apple caramel crickets which actually sing, and the tank with the lemon and liquorice wasps which sting your tongue with a chilli edge. All of those are already perfected but I'd like to release my sweet bugs all at once. Not release-release, I'm no bloody animal rights activist, but pack them up neatly in little boxes and sell them.

I stay in front of the ants' tank for a bit and study them. Their tank is filled with massive chocolate which they have been digging tunnels in. The ants are made of burnt sugar and their queen lays little jelly eggs. She has to be especially fed with jelly to do that, if she ate her way through the chocolate like the other ants do she would just lay chocolate eggs. I have not got the hang of metamorphosis yet, if I had the jelly eggs would hatch into new burnt sugar ants too. I was hoping for that but I'll probably just release them as they are when my other bugs are ready. After all, I will sell more of them if people can't hatch their own burnt sugar ants at home. Some worthless villains might take up breeding and re-selling and we can't have that.

The ladybirds and lice have a tank full of green mint plants. The lice live off the plants and the ladybirds live off the lice. They don't eat them, that would be a waste of sellable sweets, they stroke them and a drop of sour juice appears, which they eat. That's beetle juicing for you. The fluorescent green lice taste of the most delicious lime. Lime lice, hehe. They're so tiny they always leave you craving for more, and what's better then than to finish off with a ladybird? The heads and legs of the ladybirds are liquorice and as for the red part, some of them are cherry and some are strawberry, you don't know what you get until you taste them. I prefer cherry but strawberry goes better with the lime lice. Since I'm not having any lice today I scrutinise the ladybirds until I spot one which looks decidedly cherry-ish. Not that there's any visible difference, but I'm Willy Wonka after all. I lower my hand into the tank, careful not to scare the chosen one, and let it crawl onto my index finger. Then I stick my tongue out and the bug takes off and lands on it. I close my mouth and feel it crawling about on my tongue, tickling me. This should be sensational. As the caramel begins to melt it creeps slower and slower until it has no little liquorice legs left. I can feel the cherry now, attaboy!

The main attraction of the beetle juicing room is the dragonfly tank in the far end, which is more of a greenhouse really and large enough to enter. It consists mainly of a syrup basin with beautiful candied water lilies floating on the surface. Around the basin there's just enough room for a narrow path of caramel tiles, but since the basin's round and the room square there's more space in the corners, space for some potted candy trees and a seat seemingly made of marble but actually of caramel. Instead of a cushion there's gumdrop moss growing on top of the seat, very comfy. I come and sit here sometimes, enjoying the heat and the beauty of the place and the sugary scent of syrup.

I have a seat and reach out my arm, waiting for one of the dragonflies which flutter all about the room to have a seat too. When one does, I swiftly catch it by the legs, careful not to break its clear caramel wings. It's absolutely gorgeous. Its milk chocolate body is covered with intricate patterns of dark and white chocolate, and its delicate wings are trembling slightly. I pluck them off one by one and crunch and munch them. Oh yes, it's very good, I think I've outdone myself _again_. The wings are so fragile they're almost not there, yet give you a pleasant sensation of sweetness and crunchiness. The de-winging done, I break the chocolate body between my teeth with a plop! It's all gooey inside with soft caramel. Lovely as it is, something needs to be done about the caramel. The dragonflies come with different fillings but none out of the ordinary praline fillings. Now, if I wanted to make pralines I wouldn't go out of my way to put caramel wings on them and have them flying about the room. I need my dragonflies to be something _extra_, something beyond beautiful winged pralines. Perhaps I could add some unusual flavours suitable for dragonflies? Reeds? Reed flavoured caramel? Or fresh water? Frog eggs? No, not frog eggs, definitely not frog eggs. Perhaps water lily though…

Determined to explore dragonfly-related filling flavours in the inventing room later I busy myself with the gumdrop larvae. I want them to wriggle really convincingly without wriggling all over the place like the wriggly sweets. Tricky. The winged bugs _will _fly away if you're not careful, not very far but still, but I want the larvae to stay right where you put them, wriggling for decorative purposes only.

After a hard day's work in the beetle juicing room I'm stepping into the glass elevator. Where to? What to do next? Should I have dinner today? I think I need to go the the Willy or won't he room because I really don't know. Oh no, _please_, that would be overdoing it. I lock myself in there until I have made up my mind and it sure makes me make up my mind quickly because it's the most boring room in the factory, more boring than the bored room even, which is actually full of diversions since it's the room I go to when I'm bored. I so do not feel like going to the Willy or won't he room but I can't decide so I press the button and I'm off.

The glass elevator comes to a halt in front of a very plain door. It's actually the only beige door in the factory, and behind it lies its only beige room. I have to go in there now unless…

Oh good! I don't have to go in there because I already made up my mind. I will.

Phew, that was close. I can't remember the last time I was actually _in _the Willy or won't he room.

I think I'm going to walk instead. Nothing gets the digestion going like a brisk walk to the dining room, and there's nothing wrong with my legs despite me using a cane. Most of the time I just use it as a fashion accessory anyway. I have to have it at hand to rest on though because sometimes I get so weary. I have a fragile constitution, see. I think I'm anemic, but my therapist Oompa-Loompa tells me it's just psychosomatic, or rather I tell him and he nods approval.

I walk down an endless corridor which is completely empty and sparkling clean. My floors are always shiny enough to eat from. Not that I'd ever wanna do that, ew. I keep my Oompa-Loompas busy, tidying every inch of the factory continuously. Never when I'm in sight though, I don't like to see it. Seeing them clean reminds me there was… dirt.

I hear the click-clacking of my heels and the tick-tacking of my cane and the occasional muted noise from the rooms I pass. The smacking from the smackaging room… the coughing from the coughable items room… the pinging and ponging from the ping pong room… the tapping from the tap along lessons room… the rapping from the sweet rappers room… the belching from the belching bon bons room… the smashing from the balderdash smash room… the popping from the whiz popping corn room… the mumbling from the peach mumble room… the whipping from the three line whips room… the farting from the love farts room… the burping from the burp storage room… the booming from the boom boom room… Ah, yes, the Oompa-Loompas are not being idle.

And here we are. The dining room. I give my hat and cane to the Oompa-Loompa in the servant's uniform standing by the door, because it's rude to sit down for dinner with your hat on. He bows strictly as he has been told and I enter the dining room. It's about as long as my entrance hall, but not as wide, and dimly lit by chandeliers. A mahogany table runs down its entire length with an equally long oriental carpet underneath and rows of mahogany chairs with red velvet cushions. At either end of the table there's a more luxurious chair with a stuffed back, just like the throne appearing in my welcoming puppet show. I actually borrowed one of these for the show but since I don't receive visitors very often it's back to it's usual place just underneath my delightful little derrière. A mirror is seated in the chair at the far end of the table. This way, I can propose a toast to myself. If it wasn't for the thick and highly ornamented golden frame I could almost believe someone was sitting there in the shadowy distance. Another me, the darn well best companion I could ever ask for.

A row of Oompa-Loompas in black dresses and white aprons bring in the food on silver plates. When they're done, they stand back by the walls, awaiting further orders. I only hear the occasional giggle, and eye them severely because dining is not a laughing matter. Can't have an Oompa-Loompa _not _giggling for very long though, and I'm a forgiving master.

A somewhat unconventional detail in my dining room furniture is the little red-carpeted mahogany stairs on my right, designed for the servant Oompa-Loompas to reach the table. My butler Oompa-Loompa climbs these stairs, pours the wine, and remain standing on top of the stairs, ready to refill my glass. Not that that's ever needed. I import the finest wine and have an Oompa-Loompa chef trained in the finest cuisine, but I only have a sip and a forkful. Food is not really my thing. I prefer dessert, which comes in tiny portions, highly decorated, and which I actually finish. Most of the time. Today I just inhale the fumes and pick up the decorative physalis and dark chocolate leaves with my gloved hand, eating them slowly and thoughtfully, leaving the minute orb of white chocolate mousse intact.


	6. Terrific View

After dinner I feel like watching the stars, so I take the glass elevator to the terrific view room. I already told you none of my rooms have windows. Quite a few of them have glass ceilings though, primarily the ones on the top floor, but I have one on the eighteenth floor as well to show off the special design on the soles of my shoes. The good thing about glass ceilings compared to windows is that they only show the sky (except for the one on the eighteenth floor which shows the bottom of a lot of furniture, some Oompa-Loompas and sometimes me, but never when I'm watching which is a pity since I don't get to see myself from that angle very often) and the occasional aircraft, and aircrafts are about as much human contact as I can take.

I step inside the terrific view room only to notice it's cloudy. Can't anything be _done _about that? Well, while I'm here I might as well get some air. There's a window in the glass roof and as I open it I feel a small wind against my face. The night time air is so _cold_, I am sure I will catch pneumonia. There's also this _smell _in it, this unclean smell, poisonous almost, gas? There might be a gas leak somewhere tonight. I had better close the window again.

Having closed the window I turn off the lights and lay back on the black leather recliner with brocade pillows in the centre of the room to watch the sky. Since there's a town out there the sky is never pitch black, and I have good eyesight, like a cat, daylight only blinds me. And squinting is no good for you, gives you wrinkles, I would have to use sunglasses if I ever went here during daytime, which I don't. Now I can see the greenish, greyish contours of the moving clouds in the dark. It's quite meditative. Perhaps I'm ever so slightly tipsy from the few mouthfuls of wine I had with my dinner too. I like the taste and scent of exclusive wines and liquors, I like the warming sensation of them, but I certainly wouldn't get myself drunk. I doubt I could even drink enough, given I ever wanted to. Gluttony has never been one of my vices, chocolatier as I may be.

Thinking about spirits has given me quite the urge, so I call for an Oompa-Loompa to bring me a glass of chocolate liqueur. It's my own concoction, the ones available on the market simply won't do. It is not overly sweet, instead it has a very high concentration of cocoa, and perhaps this ingredient is more intoxicating than the alcohol itself. I barely let the liquid touch my lips, then I lay my head down again and feel the taste of it. The tip of my tongue burns just a little as I run it along my lips, a pleasant kind of pain. I'm suddenly reminded of that scene in _From Hell _where Fred Abberline is drinking absinthe with laudanum in his tub. The association makes me feel quite the decadent. Come to think of it, Johnny Depp is almost as good looking as me. Almost. At least when he's clean shaven and sharp dressed, as in _Sleepy Hollow_. He might be worth the honour of impersonating me if there ever was a film about the world's most famous, brilliant and handsome chocolatier. It would have to be soon though, before he's too old. And oh, he has that _horrid _American accent.

How did I become the world's most famous, brilliant and handsome chocolatier? Well, the very day I came of age I decided to build a huge chocolate factory, the largest in the world, with my father's money. Wait, why would my father suddenly give me all that money, when he had never…? That's right, he didn't.

Anyway, I used the money to build my life's work. To build my life. I already had the shop on Cherry Street by then but I obviously had to put someone else up as the actual owner. Someone of age. I picked one very much of age, what a pun, I picked that old Joe. He adored me and agreed to anything I proposed, including not getting any of the shares except for his wages as a worker in the shop. He was my kind of man, never interfering with my plans. "After all, _you're_ the genius behind all of the wonderful sweets and treats,_ I_ just put my name on a paper" he said and he was right about that of course. I didn't recognise him when he escorted Charlie to the factory that day, hadn't thought of him for years, why would I, but it was him alright. Now he's in the gingerbread house room, sort of, isn't that nice? He would be honoured.

I much prefer to have things my way, and having things my way is easier with no people at all than with people even of my taste. Strangely enough, some oppose to fulfilling my genius plans. I don't like it when that happens. Makes me irritable. Makes me have to eat chocolate to calm my nerves (not that I mind). The Oompa-Loompas never do that, never ever. They're my kind of guys alright. Quite literally.

I'm so tired, so very tired. I think I catch a glimpse of the starry sky between the clouds right before I fall asleep.


	7. Sanitarium

Grumpy and aching from not having slept in my own bed I return to my rooms to freshen up and change. I can never be seen in the same outfit two days in a row, so I'm thankful I don't meet any Oompa-Loompas on the way.

I'm not feeling so hot today so I decide to dress all in black. I seem to be in a monochrome phase. I put on a short black renaissance style velvet jacket with a neck ruff and a pair of military style riding breeches, finishing it off with black leather gloves and knee-high black leather boots. With heels of course, all of my shoes have heels. I study myself in the full-length mirror on the inside of the closet door for a moment. I feel so _naked _but a top hat simply wouldn't match my outfit. A bowler hat perhaps? Not perfect, and I don't like going out not looking perfect, but I can't stand exposing my head today, makes me feel so vulnerable. The hat is my business suit, I need it for going about the factory. I look incredibly pale, not that I ever look positively rosy, but today it's a sickly grey kind of pale. I decide it's the black clothes. I am not to wear black unless I want to look really _interesting _and brooding and severe. I guess I want to today. I'll simply have to find a suitable occupation for it.

I reckon seeing a doctor would count as a suitable occupation, considering my paleness and all.

I step into the glass elevator and press the button marked sanitarium. I almost lose my balance when the elevator accelerates. The sanitarium is a white corridor with rows of doors on both sides, doors to rooms for recovering patients, usually at least half-filled by Oompa-Loompas injured at work. It was a good thing I laid off human workers, else I would get my ass kicked in court for my working conditions I am sure…

I walk straight to the fancy door at the end of the corridor, the door with the brass sign reading "J. M. Charcot, doctor of medicine and personal physician of Mr Willy Wonka". The sign always makes me suppress a giggle and a lump in my throat simultaneously. I knock, and the door is opened by an Oompa-Loompa wearing a white doctor's coat on top of a very neat black suit.

"Do you have an appointment?" he asks me. I roll my eyes at this, not quite in the mood for joking, and he snickers and steps aside to let me in. Since this is a no-hat occasion, much like my therapy sessions, I hang my hat on the hook beside the door.

"What's bothering you today, Mr Wonka?" the doctor asks formally.

"I don't know," I reply irritably, "Just do the routine examination, will you."

He nods approval and points to the bunk clad with dull green latex. The white paper sheet rustles as I sit down on it, and the doctor approaches me with the words "Say aah."

"Do we _have _to do this every time?" I complain, but obediently open wide so that the doctor, standing on a portable metal ladder, can peer down my throat. My eyes dash all about the room in panic as he does so, and I can't begin to tell you how relieved I am when he is done. Next, he pulls out his stethoscope and asks me to remove my jacket so that he can listen properly. I snort but do as he says. I feel cold in my thin black shirt despite the high temperature in the factory, perhaps I am feverish? The doctor puts his stethoscope to my back and tells me to cough, which I do very delicately, almost like clearing my throat. The doctor goes hmmm, taps my back, at which I flinch, and listens some more. Then he sits in front of me and eyes me severely for a long while without speaking.

"I need you to take one drop of this each morning before breakfast, preferably in a glass of cold water, for, ahem, three weeks to begin with and then we'll see." he finally says, handing me an old fashioned brown medicine bottle of my own design. The green label reads "Wonka's Wondrous Tincture for Retrieving the Vital Spirits" in an elaborate black font.

"I also strongly suggest you to spend the rest of the day in bed," he continues, "Tomorrow after you have had your medication you may get up, provided you feel strong enough, but you mustn't over-exhaust yourself. I also advise you to try not to get over-excited since that would strain your already over-charged nerves and possibly result in a fit."

At the word "fit" I involuntarily open my eyes wide and decide to heed his words carefully.

"Perhaps I should start the medication right now?" I ask weakly, "Just to regain enough strength to retire to my residence."

"That's not a bad idea," says the doctor, "Three drops should do the trick, but do not exceed the prescription of one drop at a time again."

I nod my head and he brings me a glass of water. My hand is trembling slightly when I drip the medicine into the water, and I accidentally pour out four drops. I glance at the doctor to make sure he hasn't noticed, neither the trembling nor the overdosing. The tincture is the colour of iodide and spreads in the water like octopus ink. For a moment I almost forget everything else for the sheer beauty of it. When it's properly mixed I close my eyes and drink it down in one long gulp. I do not like the chilling feel of it inside and I hurriedly put my jacket back on, letting the medicine bottle slide into my pocket. Then I get up, retrieve my bowler hat and thank the doctor with a nod. As I walk down the corridor to the glass elevator, I actually lean on my cane for once.

I let the glass elevator bring me back to my rooms (the ride makes me nauseous), but decide against going to bed. I guess I could cash in a day's sleep in my own bed after my night in the terrific view room, but I doubt I'll sleep and I don't like the thought of laying awake in my bed during daytime. Instead I remove my hat and replace my jacket with a luxuriously thick and soft dressing gown in an oriental pattern of green and golden hues. I love this dressing gown, its golden belt even ends in tassels! I sit down in a leather chair in my hall and call for two Oompa-Loompas to pull the boots off my feet and replace them with slippers. Resting heavily on my cane I go into my lounge and lay down on the red velvet divan, draped with exclusive oriental cloths and pillows. An Oompa-Loompa covers my legs with a black mohair blanket, a second Oompa-Loompa brings me a small cup of hot chocolate and a bowl of grapes, and a third one tends the fire in the huge open fireplace, covered from my view by a screen with an intricate pattern of cut-outs to let the light and warmth through.

The divan is so low I can reach the tiger skin on the floor with my hand, and I stroke it slowly, back and forth, forth and back. Perhaps I should get a pet to stroke, a sleek black cat or a very well behaved silver grey greyhound? But pets _litter_. And shed hair which makes your nose tickle.

After about half an hour of rest I am seriously bored and call for the Oompa-Loompas to entertain me. Half a dozen of them come dancing in dressed in turbans and salwars and pointy slippers, waving sables dangerously close to my Ming vases and Pharaonic death masks. They sing a funny tune about a sultan who fell ill, poisoned by his arch enemy, but found a remedy in cocoa and executed his enemies in remarkably cruel and gory ways. In the finale one Oompa-Loompa stands triumphant while the others lay scattered "dead" across the room. I clap my hands and exclaim "Bravo!" Then I recall the doctor's words about not getting over-excited and let the corners of my mouth drop immediately. I dismiss the Oompa-Loompas, determined to read a book instead. Books don't come with singing and dancing and fancy costumes, except for imaginary ones of course, and those rarely get me over-excited.

I can't be bothered with _dull _books, so when I find some with interesting titles I have a group of Oompa-Loompas test reading them with an ever-growing list of qualities to look out for. This goes for films as well. The list is divided into two sections, positive qualities and negative qualities. On the positive qualities list there are things like "chocolate", "puns" and "dashing outfits to show my tailor", and on the negative qualities list there are things like "realism", "nudity" and "dentists". If the number of positive qualities outweights the number of negative ones the book or film ends up in my library, which I prefer torefer to as theliterary allusions room, if not, in the incinerator. I suspect the Oompa-Loompas sometimes keep the bad nuts for themselves, but I don't like that, I don't want low culture in between my factory walls.

I call for my librarian Oompa-Loompa to bring in my List of Books Yet to Read. On top of the list is _Nights at the Circus_ by Angela Carter.

"Alright," I say, "I'll read it. I like circuses. Circuses and carnivals and freak shows. It better be good though."

The novel has me hooked all afternoon, and it's only icky in some places. When I go to bed in the early evening it has me dreaming about tigers on the Transsiberian Express. Ferocious fudge felines with chocolate streaks…


End file.
